Rainbow Keepers
by BerryliciousCheerio
Summary: "never will I lose sight of you..." Until you do. And then what? Skid Marks, revamped and renamed.
1. Chapter 1

**So, this is the revamped and renamed Skid Marks. Why did I decide to redo this whole shebang, you ask? Well, firstly, the previous Azalia incarnation was far too sweet and submissive and cool with the whole 'my mother left me when I was four, and then my father died, and then mom went off to die in a desert, and then my best friend/friend with benefits got shot protecting me, and then I got shipped off to live with the mother that ditched me'. I mean, I just can't write characters that happy. She was way too fine with it, and I didn't like writing that. Also, I hadn't really plotted out the story, whatsoever. So, writing it sucked. Therefore, I rewrote it all, just for the fun of it, as I had orignally planned to just discontinue the story and be done with it. Because of this, I'll make a few notes.**

**Before, (i.e. the earlier version. We'll call it Skid Marks 1.0) Azalia was about fourteen, and in the eighth grade, and Ziva had had her when she was nineteen. I screwed with the timeline a bit, because for my plot to work, realistically speaking, Azalia had to be older. **

**So, the _new_ timeline is; Ziva got pregnant when she was seventeen, in 1999, the father being her boyfriend at the time, Benjamin Malev. Ziva then left for her NCIS mission (i.e. the first episode we ever saw of her) when her daughter, Azalia, was six. In 2008ish, Ziva went on her suicide mission to Somalia, and Azalia, at the tender age of nine, was told that her mother died abroad. She did not find out until she was almost ten that her mother was alive. Whilst Ziva was becoming a US citizen (circa 2010), Azalia was grappling with the death of her father, at the age of eleven.**

**And there, my friends, is the fixed up timeline for the fixed up Skid Marks. Now for the fun stuff...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS, Ziva David, Eli David, or anyone else you recognize from pop-culture. I do own Azalia, her father, her friends, the mysterious Shahid, a HUGE poster of the Avengers, and a ticket to see House at the End of the Street. So, there.**

* * *

_**commence**_

* * *

Eli David was far too old to be doing this.

He rubbed his face exasperatedly, listening to the headmistress who was currently chronicling his granddaughter's latest outburst, startling when the woman mentioned fire.

"She did _what_?"

The headmistress, a particularly unpleasant woman by the name of Anita French, repeated in her proper English accent, "She snuck into one of the other dormitories and set it aflame. Mr. David, I understand that Azalia is a troubled girl, but she's taken it too far."

Eli groaned and asked, "Was anyone hurt?"

"No. However, the fact of the matter is that Azalia is dangerous to our other students, and we cannot compromise many for the sake of one. I hope you understand this."

He sighed.

"I suppose. May I speak with my granddaughter?"

"Of course."

There was a bit of rustling, along with a voice he recognized swearing in Hebrew -"_Kalba_"-, and then, "Saba?"

"Azalia, that language is not appropriate for a girl your age."

"Lech lehizdayen."

Instead of attempting to argue with his amazingly headstrong granddaughter, Eli said gruffly, "You are being expelled, Azalia."

Azalia snapped her gum. "So?" She drawled flatly, sounding incredibly bored at the conversation.

"I'm not bringing you back to Israel."

"You cannot do that."

"Can't I?"

"You have to bring me home."

"Azalia, with what happened–."

"You are still holding that against me? Saba, Shahid– he's–. …I can come home, I'm better now."

"No. I'm sending you to your mother."

Azalia grew silent. Eli felt a little guilty for this, because he knew how Azalia felt about her mother, and he knew that in doing this, he was most likely alienating his granddaughter even more than she already was, but he had no other choices for her.

"What about that boarding school in Switzerland?"

"They will not accept you, Azalia. There are no other options."

"There _must _be, Saba, anything, I'll do anything but that."

"No. It is already done."

White lie number four hundred thousand seventy nine.

Eli began making arrangements for her flights as Azalia sputtered on the other end of the line.

Finally, she said soberly, "I'll run."

"Where will you run, tatelah?"

"Somewhere. I've done it before, Saba; I can do it again."

"I do not doubt that. But you won't, because you know I will find you."

"Saba, I–." Azalia's voice broke, and she fell silent abruptly, ostensibly to collect herself before saying, "I hate you."

The line went dead.

Eli sighed mournfully, grieving the granddaughter he had lost years before and worrying over the sullen, troubled young woman that had replaced her. A knock at his door brought him back, and he collected himself.

There was work to be done.

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

"Aza, do you really have to leave?"

Azalia glanced over at Sara, one of her friends at Bridgeport Academy, and sighed, "I wish I didn't."

Sara made a face at her, and tossed her her missing pair of shoes, a pair of strappy heels in a delicious red, before she began rummaging through Azalia's top dresser drawer.

When Azalia had returned to her soon-to-be-ex-dorm room, Sara and a few other girls had been there. The look on her face must have been rather frightening, as the other girls fled quickly, and Sara was then told the whole sad story of her expulsion.

"I still can't believe French is getting away with this," Sara said suddenly, her voice impassioned. "I mean, you didn't even _mean_ to set anything on fire."

"I think it was more to do with the reason for my being in the boys' dormitory, rather than the actual fire."

"You shouldn't have brought your lighter."

"Well, I know that _now_."

Sara paused, and turned to face Azalia, who was staring down at her mostly packed bag, trying to figure out what else she needed from the room she shared with Sara and their other friend, Elise. After a moment, Azalia realized she was being watched.

"What is it, Sara?"

"I was just wondering…"

"Yes?"

"Who was it, this time?"

Azalia smirked at the floor, and turned, avoiding her friend's gaze. She muttered, "Daniel."

"French?!"

Sara's disbelief was tempered by a sudden epiphany as to why Azalia was getting kicked out of Bridgeport, and Azalia nodded bashfully, her face a girlish shade of pink.

"Well…was he any good?"

Sara ducked the pillow tossed at her face, and returned to her search through her friend's things.

She held up a bag of jewelry. "Aza, are you taking this?"

Azalia glanced up at the bag, and after a moment, she told her, "No, you can have it, if you'd like." A quick peek into the bag elicited an excited squeal, which Azalia took as a confirmation, and she laughed quietly.

A moment later, Sara asked, "What's in the envelope?"

Azalia held out her hand. "Let me see it." Sara complied, dropping the unmarked white envelope into her friend's hand. Azalia glanced in and promptly dropped it into her bag, blinking back tears. Shahid looked so _whole_ in that picture.

"Aza?"

"Hmm? Oh, um, I think I am going to take it with me."

"M'kay."

Soberly, Azalia folded a sweater and effectively buried the envelope.

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

The last thing Ziva was expecting at one thirty in the morning, when she was falling asleep on her couch after dragging herself through the door not ten minutes before, was a call from her father.

Blearily, she answered, "Eli?"

"Azalia's been expelled."

At the mention of her daughter's name, Ziva woke up a bit more, the sleepy fog clearing from her mind. "Excuse me?"

"The headmistress called– she allegedly set a dormitory on fire. No other schools will accept her; she will arrive on Friday at Dulles, with a stopover in New York."

Before Eli could hang up, Ziva said, "Wait– Eli, what happened exactly?" Her father sighed. It was obvious that he didn't want to go into details, but after this being dropped on her abruptly; Ziva expected a few answers at least.

"Allegedly, she broke into one of the empty dormitories and set it aflame, using a small, handheld lighter that one would generally use for lighting a cigarette. Afterwards, she denied it, claiming that the headmistress 'had it out for her'."

"Is it possible that she actually didn't do what she's accused of?"

"You have not been here, Ziva. You have not seen her since the whole–…since her father died. There is no doubt in my mind that she would do something like this."

"The whole what?" Ziva snapped.

"Just everything that happened with her father."

"What happened that I don't know about?"

"Nothing you need to know about."

"I'm her _mother_."

"A mother whose been _absent_ from her life for the past _ten_ years."

"Nine."

"Excuse me?"

"It's only been nine and a half years."

"…Yes. Nine and a half years. The point is that you have not been here, with Azalia. You have not seen the…the troubles. And they are not my troubles to speak about. You will have to ask Azalia about it all when she gets there."

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

Azalia looked up when someone sat down next to her in a small pub in London, in the lobby of her hotel, where she'd tucked herself into the corner of the bar, nursing a vodka tonic (_hold the tonic, please, thank you_).

The man was young, barely twenty, she hoped, with brown hair buzzed short. Military? The tattoo peeking out from under his t-shirt sleeve answered her question for her. His dark eyes –maybe dark blue or green, maybe brown (it was terribly hard to see anything in the dim lighting)– glimmered, and he asked, "What's a girl like you doing drinking alone?"

American.

Hmm.

Deal breaker?

Azalia cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes.

No. She could look past it.

She broke out into a winning grin and said, "Waiting for a nice bastard like you to come and keep me company." She pegged him as the type to like a little edge.

He slid closer.

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

Azalia woke up alone, naked, and with a pounding headache and no Advil in sight. This was not anything new, for her, at least.

At least she recognized her hotel room, and was not in an alley somewhere.

Slowly, Azalia reached over for the robe that she had flung over a chair and dragged herself out of the luxurious bed, wrapping the fluffy thing around as she went. She checked her phone.

A couple of texts from Sara and some other girls from the school, a few from her friends back in Tel Aviv who must have gotten word about her going to America, and one from an unidentified number.

She selected that one and made a face. It was from her mother. She knew that she ought not to have deleted her number after that last fight. But, whatever. What was done, was done, and she deleted the message quickly, promising herself that she'd text her when she got to New York.

But first, back to the bar.

She had grabbed her wallet and room key and was halfway to the door when she remembered she needed clothes. Sighing, Azalia doubled back and got dressed.

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

New York was bustling, and as she waited for her bags at the luggage terminal, Azalia tapped out a message to her mother, stating, as coldly as a text could convey, that she had arrived in New York safely, and that she would be in D.C. in another day and a half.

On the torturously long flight (what? She was Israeli. Sue her if she didn't like planes), she had debated calling, so that the venom in her voice could come across properly, but decided against it, thanks to her pain in the ass hangover headache and the fact that, whilst hungover, she tended to ramble and devolve into a teary mess.

So, no.

Azalia spotted her leopard and zebra print bags, the few things that were left from her childhood that were actually vaguely useful. Also, the only things that stayed with her.

Everything else was in a dump, somewhere. Perhaps being recycled?

She hoped so.

Slowly, she made her way out to the sidewalk and slipped into the back of the line for a taxi, inching her bags up in front of her as the line moved forward. Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she reached for it, maneuvering her bags away from the side of the road.

Her mother.

Oh, damn, calling this time.

Her finger hesitated above the reject button, but an impulse whose origins are still under scrutiny sent her thumb flying for the accept button instead.

"Malev," she answered, voice neutral, the way she had learned from her father.

Her mother asked, without any preamble, "Where are you?"

Of all the things she was expecting from the other side of the line (_I'm sorry-I've missed you-I love you-You have every right to be angry_), it was not that.

"Uhm, I don't know?"

"You don't _know_?"

"I mean, I am standing outside, waiting for a taxi. Why?"

Her temper was about to flare. She could feel it.

If she could have it her way, she would hang up on her mother and go find some quiet corner to curl up and breathe, and try not to think about–.

She broke off, mid-thought, and realized her mother was speaking to her.

"…thought it would be nice to spend some time together in a neutral city."

"Wait, you are _here_? In New York?"

Oh, god, she had to sober up.

Or un-hangover up.

Or something.

Be less obviously hungover.

She started rummaging through her purse, searching for the Visine that she kept there for emergencies such as this, and beginning to think about where she had seen the last Starbucks stand in the airport.

"You have the same suitcases?"

It was both a question and a statement, and Azalia stopped searching through her purse, turning her head towards the street with dread growing in her stomach.

Her empty stomach.

Though the thought started out as hunger-fueled, Azalia felt tears prick the corners of her eyes, and with one fell swoop she was drowning once again. If she could, she would claw at her throat, check to make sure that she wasn't actually dying, run screaming to the nearest bridge and jump from it to match the sensation to the experience. Any and/or all of those things were acceptable.

Instead, she spotted her mother in a bright red mini-cooper. It would have been laughable if it was not the exact car that she would have chosen for herself.

Azalia pursed her lips and tried not to salivate over the cherry red car, tried not to imagine herself speeding down a highway in a car like that. Even though her sixteenth birthday was fast approaching, her grandfather still refused to even think about allowing her onto any roadways, moped or no.

Something about her being her mother's daughter and public safety.

Like a moped would do much damage to a person.

Slowly, Azalia slid out of the line, rolling her bag accidentally on purpose over the toes of the jerk that had sat behind her on the plane and had kept kneeing her in the back for eight long hours. She flashed him a winning smile when he grumbled, and twisted her body just so, so that a bit of her cleavage was easily seen over the top of her camisole.

Service with a smile, yes?

More like surly with a smile.

Whatever the case, he fell silent rather quickly.

Her mother pulled up to the curb, and got out to assist her with her bags, which Azalia was both annoyed at and thankful for, because, really, both bags weighed nearly as much as she did.

For a moment, Azalia studied her mother, who, true to form, was as collected as always.

She looked just about the same, a little fuller maybe, and her hair was different, a smooth chocolate brown instead of the wild charcoal curls that she had once shared with her daughter. No wrinkles, no gray hairs, nothing to point to any worry over her wayward child, nothing to make it seem as if she had been having a tough time over here, in the land of gold paved streets and dreams.

Azalia bit the inside of her cheek to keep from calling her mother several names that were apparently not used in daily conversation and, in most places, were frowned upon.

Later, she promised herself (the evil side of herself, of course), she could throw a hissy fit and punch a wall and write out a list of things she hated about her mother and then burn it.

Passive aggressiveness at its finest, and wouldn't her father be proud?

Her mother hefted the last bag into the trunk of her car, and turned to face her. Azalia though back to every sappy movie she had ever seen that had involved a mother-daughter reunion, and, oh, most of those had involved some teary hug and a lot of mumbled confessions.

But then again, those movies had only ever elicited a derisive snort out of her, so, well–.

"You've gotten so tall."

Azalia looked up at her mother, who, yes, was only a few inches taller than her, unlike the last time she had seen her, when there was almost a foot and a half difference.

"That's generally what happens when you haven't seen someone in ten years," she muttered, as she focused on wedging her carry-on between the zebra-print bag and the roof of the car.

Don't look up, don't look up, do _not _look up.

There was a beat of silence. "Did you dye your hair?"

Her mother sounded both stunned and accusatory, and Azalia fingered the lock of hair that she must be talking about, the only streak that had been kept from the one, mistaken, day that Azalia had decided to really mess with her grandfather and dye her hair blue.

"Yes. A while ago."

"…I would have appreciated pictures."

"I would have appreciated a childhood."

Azalia finally looked up to see her mother with a startlingly blank face, and she waited until her mother said, "Get in the car."

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

**Review?**

**Translations:**

**Kalba: Bitch (to a woman)**

**Lech lehizdayen: Fuck off**


	2. Chapter 2

Azalia doubted there was anything more awkward than having lunch with the mother you have not seen in a decade. She sat across from her mother, trying to look anywhere but at her, focusing instead on the wall of photographs of all the celebrities that had eaten at the restaurant. She had been toying with the same fry for the past fifteen minutes, and, by now, the other half of her burger and the rest of her enormous serving of fries were cold.

Her mother eyed her mostly uneaten meal, and asked, "You're not hungry?"

"Hmm? Oh, I ate something on the plane."

More awkward silence.

Finally, her mother sighed. "Azalia," she said, her voice low and vaguely dangerous. "I would like to have a pleasant week with you. You can go back to hating me when we return to D.C., but is five days too much to ask for?"

"Yes," Azalia answered solemnly, finally looking at her mother with the eyes of a shark, cold and flat, the way she had trained herself to be.

"Well, do you want to spend the next five days in silence?"

"Yes. It is quite soothing."

"Azalia," her mother said, an edge in her voice.

Azalia propped her head up on her hand and drawled, "Yes?"

Her mother studied her for a long moment before her expression hardened, and she said, "Ground rules. We ought to go over them."

"Let me guess; curfew before midnight, no boys, no parties, and if you catch me with alcohol, drugs, or cigarettes, you may actually kill me."

"Ten o'clock, and you'll call if you're going to be late. Parties may be allowed, if you've proven yourself responsible and there will be some form of supervision–."

"So, no parties?"

"Dating will be allowed, but I want to meet the boy, and I'll need to know where you are going, and have a way to be in contact with you at any time."

"So, no dating, too."

Her mother continued talking as if she hadn't heard Azalia annoyed mutter. "Usage of alcohol or drugs will not be tolerated, nor will smoking."

Silently, Azalia calculated her chances of sneaking that one bottle of tequila past her mother.

10:1, odds in her mother's favor. Worth the risk?

She thought back to the last time she had drunk herself into a stupor. Did she remember much, then?

No.

So, it was worth it.

"Azalia, are you even listening?"

"No," she replied automatically, fixing her mother with a stare that a serial killer would envy. Would this be the theoretical straw that breaks the camel's back? Her mother's eyes narrowed.

Oh, why, yes, it seemed it was.

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

Ziva knew that Azalia would be angry with her. She knew this. She expected the cold shoulder, maybe, or perhaps a tantrum in the car. Not this new attitude of hers, which seemed to be in place for the sole purpose of pushing her mother's buttons. The last time they had spoken (see: fought), there had been hints of something, but not _this._

She was tempted to throw her water at Azalia, to see if she would melt.

_I knew I shouldn't have watched the Wizard of Oz with Tony_.

Azalia continued to pick at her food, as Ziva studied her, taking in the fact that she seemed to have gained a little weight since the last pictures she had received from her father, which was good, as she was much too thin then. Her eyeliner was smudged a bit– when did she start wearing makeup?

That blue streak of hair was taunting her, though. Ziva reached out instinctively and brushed it away from her daughter's face. Azalia looked partially shocked and partially outraged at this intrusion of her personal bubble, but said nothing.

Ziva asked, "When did you dye it?"

"Seven months ago."

"Why?" Yes, she was asking about her daughter's reasoning behind blue hair, but it was the best peace offering she could offer at the time.

"Not sure. Thought it would look good."

"Did it?"

"Not at all."

She fingered the blue hair and studied it for a moment. Finally, she said, "It was a mistake all around. Lots of things were."

Ziva, for a moment, thought that what her daughter said was a jab at her, but this only lasted until she noticed Azalia's dark eyes trained on a spot left of center, unfocused and shining with what could be tears.

But, they probably were not.

She softened slightly and asked, "What would you like to do today?" She was about to reach out and grab Azalia's hand, when her daughter's eyes snapped to her, wary and unforgiving.

"Whatever there is to do in this city, I suppose. You should know; you're the _American citizen_."

Her patience was gone. Shot to hell in a hand basket. She was sure that Tony would correct her idiom (or multiple idioms, she supposed, looking back on the thought).

Ziva snapped, "Are you done?" gesturing to Azalia's half-eaten lunch.

"Yes," she answered smoothly, pushing her plate towards the edge of the table and sipping her drink with her eyebrows raised at Ziva, as if asking _'What now?'_. After a moment, Azalia must have decided that the silence was too much, because she said, "I would like to see Ellis Island. If that is alright with you?"

Though her tone suggested she did not care, the look in her eyes said otherwise. Ziva's heart squeezed at the sudden reminder of the hesitant little girl that she remembered as her daughter, the one that she left behind. As quickly as it appeared, the look disappeared, and Azalia's eyes became guarded once again.

Ziva sighed and called over their waiter to ask for the check.

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

Ellis Island was amazing.

And sad.

Azalia was feeling exceptionally conflicted as she studied one of the exhibits.

It illustrated how many people were once packed into the very room she was standing in, sweaty and terrified of not being let into the country they so desperately wanted entrance to. It was heart-wrenching.

The fact that, now, people in positions such as hers were granted immediate entrance, while others fought their way through legal (and not so legal) channels…it worried her.

Lightly, she drew her fingers across the edge of the podium, tapping her nails as she read. Though her speaking English was excellent, her reading level left much to be desired, and after five minutes, she gave up, already feeling a headache forming behind her eyes.

If she had less pride, she would ask her mother to read it aloud to her.

But she had more pride than was necessarily healthy, and she instead moved on to an area that was comprised of mostly pictures, and simple words. It was obviously geared towards younger children, but whatever. Her head was in enough pain already.

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

Ziva trailed behind her daughter, letting her explore the museum without provoking any type of outburst. She was not conflict-adverse, but she really did not have it in her for another blowout fight with a girl that was too clever for her own good. Especially in a public place.

Instead, she was content to watch Azalia as she attempted to read all of the different articles, giving up after a few minutes with each one with an exasperated sigh and moving on.

Ziva would skim the writings as well, glancing at the photos or paintings or diagrams for a moment or two, before she followed Azalia. But, of course, nothing gold can stay.

Eventually, they had seen all that there was to see, and, after a quick perusal of the gift shop, they were on the ferry back to Manhattan. Azalia asked, eyes trained on the water, "How is NCIS?"

"It's good. How was Bridgeport?"

"I got kicked out," she drawled.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimed.**

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

Days passed slowly, it seemed at the time, but then it was suddenly day five, and Azalia was not sure whether she was glad for it or not. She and her mother had struck up a tenuous peace after their first day in the city, avoiding topics like Israel or D.C. or anything that had happened further back than six months.

It was good enough, even if there were multiple silence when they ran out of safe topics.

And, though it was okay, Azalia still wished that she had had a few days to herself, when she could explore the city on her own, and possibly flirt with the impossibly cute coffee boy she saw every morning in the hotel lobby's Starbucks. She would have brought him back to her room, if she had been alone. Added another name to the growing little black book.

There was something about his eyes that tugged at her heart, or what was left of it, and she thought that, after he left, she would probably cry.

Still worth it.

She could pretend.

That was a hard thing, too. In New York, there were so many people that reminded her of home; girls with unnaturally blonde hair, boys with dark skin and blue eyes. It hurt to remember those that were left behind, but she decided it would hurt more if she had to be around the originals, trying to keep her mouth shut about what happened.

On day three, she and her mother were walking through Times Square (at her request; she really wanted to see the jumbo-tron) she saw a young couple, desert-skinned and dark eyed, a little girl between them with her mother's nose and father's eyes.

It was not exact, was not even close.

It still hurt.

But, the trip was winding down, and, in approximately seventeen hours, she would be settling into the passenger seat of her mother's car, dealing with the harsh reality that she would be there for upwards of four hours.

No escapes.

Nothing to distract her.

Azalia threw her sweatshirt into her bag roughly, hands shaking a little at the prospect. It took her a moment to calm herself, but when she did, she quickly pulled the sweatshirt out, the sentimental part of her worrying about the envelope of pictures she had yet to retrieve.

They were there, not bothered in the slightest.

On a whim, Azalia, foolishly thinking that she would be able to handle it, opened the envelope, and slid the pictures out into her hand.

Nope. Still not. Still hurt more than she wanted it to.

His eyes were bright in the photo, his smile genuine, and she cannot remember the last time she had looked so happy. Marching on, she shuffled through the prints, stopping when she found the one of them kissing.

Shahid had left the camera on a timer and promptly distracted her thoroughly.

She ghosted her fingers over her lips, the pressure of his lips a distant memory.

A knock on her door startled her out of the memory, and brought the tears on her cheeks to her attention. Azalia dropped the pictures into the bag, covering them once again with her sweatshirt, and swiped her cheeks quickly, pausing by the mirror to check her mascara, or lack thereof, as she soon found out.

As she scrubbed the black streaks from her face with a tissue, she called out, "Just a minute!"

She was not too worried about who it was, seeing as her mother had a room across the hall, and, to this point, was her only visitor. And it was not like she could not defend herself if it happened to be an intruder.

But, no, it was only her mother, who's eyes narrowed when she got a good look at her once she opened the door. It was obvious she had come to talk about something else, but the first thing out of her mouth was, "You were crying."

"At some point, yes. Aria and Ezra just broke up. Again."

She jerked her thumb over her shoulder at the TV, which was off, and sort of ruined her excuse.

But whatever.

She did not need to justify anything to this woman.

Her mother looked skeptical, but did not push the issue. "I was wondering if you were hungry? We could have a late lunch, or very early dinner."

"Oh, um," Azalia stalled, glancing over her shoulder, looking in vain for an escape, "no. I mean, you can, if you like. But, I am not very hungry."

"Later, then?"

"Sure. Later," she parroted, knowing that there was a very slim chance that they would end up eating together.

If things worked out how they had been the past few days, both women would retreat to their respective rooms and order room service after saying goodnight at, like, six at night.

The pair stood in silence for a moment, before her mother asked, "Do you need any help repacking?"

"No," Azalia snapped, crossing her arms and shifting her weight.

Her mother let out a sigh through gritted teeth, and she said annoyedly, "Fine. I will see you at eight thirty? We can get breakfast before we leave."

"Sure," Azalia answered, turning her back to her mother and returning to her bag.

She made like she was folding her sweatshirt, her back blocking the envelope from view, and waited until she heard her mother's footsteps retreat.

When she heard the door click open, she opened her mouth and murmured, "Laila tov," her native tongue sounding foreign and awkward, coming out of a mouth that had only spoken English for nearly a year. And before that, she had only really spoken Hebrew at school, instead practicing English and Russian with her friends, and then only Arabic with Shahid, and she rarely spoke to her grandfather, only emailed her mother.

But it must have been at least slightly understandable, because her mother responded after a moment's hesitation, "Laila tov, Azalia."

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

At least there was one thing that had not changed. Azalia still slept like a rock.

Ziva smirked as she swerved into another lane, a car honking in the background, and all Azalia did was wrinkle her nose and rub her hand against her face before returning to her smooth, deep breathing.

Twenty minutes into the drive, when they were still stuck in New York traffic, Azalia had declared that she was far too pretty for traffic and reclined her seat, throwing her jacket over her shoulders as a faux blanket. Maybe a minute after that, she was dead asleep.

It was nice to see that some things remained the same.

At the stoplight, she reached back for her own jacket and draped it over Azalia's legs before she nudged the air conditioning up. And then she promptly muttered under her breath a string of words that she dearly hoped Azalia did not know as a car cut her off, running its own red light.

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

"Azalia, wake up. We are here, and I cannot carry you up the stairs, ahuvati."

The pet name slipped out without her realizing it.

Ziva was crouched down next to her still sleeping daughter, gently shaking her shoulder, and hoping that it would not start raining before they got into the building.

Azalia's eyes stayed closed, but she murmured sleepily, "Imale?"

That was unexpected.

Her daughter had not called her mom in about four years, and the last time she had called her mommy? Well, she had been five, _maybe_. Obviously Azalia was still quite tired, if not still asleep.

Ziva brushed the hair back away from Azalia's face, and ran her thumb across her daughter's cheek, whispering, "Azalia, you need to wake up."

Azalia's eyes fluttered open, blinking rapidly in the mid-afternoon sunlight. For a moment, her eyes remained clouded, and murmured again, "Imale? What time is…is…" She trailed off as her eyelids drooped.

"Oh, no, Azalia, don't fall back asleep." She pulled her daughter upright, and lifted her legs out, succeeding in Azalia's eyes opening completely, though they stayed foggy, completely out of it.

"Can you walk, tatelah?"

Azalia nodded slowly, her head bobbing mindlessly as her eyes remained fixed on her mother. Ziva wrapped an arm around her daughter, who leaned into her and shuffled her feet in the direction she was pointed in.

Ziva glanced back to her car and decided that she could come back for the bags later, once she got Azalia in and back to sleep.

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

"'_Zalia, get in!" _

_She eyes his shirtless form approvingly, as he bobs up and down in the ocean, his dark hair falling into his eyes sloppily. _

_She calls back, "Not wearing a bathing suit, am I?" _

_He grins, and a flash of heat spreads through her body. He tells her, "You can just wear your underwear. No one's around." _

_She glances around. No cars, no people. _

_She pulls her tank top off quickly, dropping it in the sand before she can think it over, and she kicks off her shorts soon after. _

_Shahid wades into shallower water, where it only laps at his knees as she meanders towards him, swinging her hips, intent on making him want her as much as she wants him right now. _

_It works. _

_As soon as she's close enough, he wraps his long arms around her and pulls her flush against him, chest to chest, hip to hip. She presses a lingering kiss to his shoulder, and leans up to kiss his pulse point, nipping the sensitive skin lightly. Almost a year together gave her the knowledge of all his little ticks, and this is one of them. _

_She feels how it affects him, pressing up against her leg, so she slips out from under his arms and dives into the water, not quite wanting to start anything they won't be able to finish until they go back to her empty apartment, the last thing she hears is his indignant cry of, "Not fair!"_

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

When Azalia woke up, the first thing she noticed was that the sun was blinding. Not quite Israeli-summer-sun-off-the-water blinding, but jarring enough to make her close her eyes again.

She blinked her eyes open again, slowly this time, allowing her time to adjust. The second thing she noticed was that she was no longer in her mother's car, on some highway up the coast. Instead, she was in a bedroom that she presumed was her mother's.

Unless she's dreamed up everything with her mother and New York, and that she's actually still in England, and this is the room of someone she went home with from the pub.

She rolled onto her back and then onto her other side, and made a face when she saw a picture that she recognized, one of her mother, her Uncle Ari, and her Aunt Talia, when they were children.

And alive.

Blearily, she rubbed her eyes and sat up, her head spinning for a moment before she trusted her legs enough to stand. She shuffled out into the short hallway and paused for a moment, waiting to hear if her mother was awake.

She heard soft murmuring, in English, of course, which was always harder for her to understand when she was sleepy. It all just jumbled up in her head, a string of letters that were not recognizable. She shook her head and stumbled out, her mind still foggy with sleep, and she kept a hand on the wall to steady herself.

Her back twinged, and she frowned. She had not had a problem in at least two months. Maybe the disorientation was because of…?

She did not have time to finish that thought, as her mother rounded the corner and nearly knocked her off her precarious balance. Obviously she was not yet re-accustomed to her mother's all-but-silent footsteps.

Her mother switched from English to Hebrew effortlessly, saying, "Oh, Azalia, I didn't know you were up."

Azalia rubbed her eyes and mumbled, "That may be because I didn't say anything when I woke up. Who were you talking to?"

"Hmm? Oh, just a coworker."

If she was lying, Azalia did not care. "Whatever. What time is it?"

"Five thirty in the afternoon. Are you hungry? You slept through lunch."

"Not very."

Her stomach rumbled, completely voiding her previous statement, and her mother smirked at her, crossing her arms and adopting a look akin to smugness. Triumphant, maybe?

Azalia was too tired to care.

"Is pizza okay?"

Azalia eyed her mother, having not thought of her as the pizza-type of person, but maybe America was more influential that she had once believed. "…Sure."

Her mother nodded and brushed past her towards her bedroom, pausing only to ask, "Do you still keep kosher?"

Azalia made a face. "Not really."

Her mother must have read something in her tone, which may or may not have been used on purpose, just to get a reaction, because she cast a look over her shoulder and said, "I only asked because I know your father kept kosher."

"Abba's been dead for four years. Why am I supposed to follow the rules of a dead man?"

Her mother disappeared into her room, and Azalia shuffled into what must have been the living room, moving slowly while waiting for her mother's response. "I didn't know, Azalia." Her mother sounded exceptionally exasperated.

Azalia felt a twinge of guilt, and a flicker of regret, but the moment passed quickly, and Azalia flopped down onto the couch, swinging her legs up and reclining. Her eyes slipped shut, and when she opened them again, her mother was padding out with her cell phone in hand.

She had apparently changed her clothes, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and looking exceptionally comfortable. Azalia was suddenly all too aware of the fact that, while a pair of skinny jeans and a sweater were perfect for a couple of hours of napping, more than that was a bit much, and the waistband of her jeans were cutting into her hip.

She opened her mouth just as her mother asked, "What do you want on the pizza?"

Oh.

"Er…cheese?"

"Just cheese?"

"Um, no. Pineapple, too. …If that is okay."

Her mother raised her eyebrows and she parroted incredulously, "Pineapple?"

"And olives, please."

"Really? You used to hate olives."

"I also used to refuse to wear pants and believed that one day I would rule the world. Times have changed."

In retrospect, that last part was a bit unnecessary. But whatever.

Her mother let the topic drop, and Azalia asked as she was dialing, "Where're my bags?"

Ziva jerked her thumb over towards the door, where just beside it were her bags, lined up neatly. Azalia flashed her a mostly grateful smile and walked over, kneeling down in front of the leopard print one and unzipping it halfway. She reached in and fished around for a moment, before she felt the soft edge of a t-shirt. Azalia yanked it out, and then slipped her arm back in, until she found a pair of pajama pants.

After she zipped the bag back up, Azalia turned back to her mother and asked in a whisper, "Bathroom?"

Her mother pointed to a door to the left before returning to listening to whatever whomever she was talking to said. If Azalia were to make an educated guess, she would think that it was a pimply teenaged boy on the other end, bored and upset at working the night shift on a Friday and utterly too cool to be taking this order. He was probably speaking in a monotone. Too cool for emotion, as well.

But Azalia was really overthinking this.

She slipped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her, flipping the lock out of habit. At Bridgeport, if you did not lock the door, you were basically inviting someone in to steal your clothes. Or, if they were of an eviler kind, take pictures of you nude to post on the school's website, to stay until one of the faculty members found out and crashed the website in order to take them down.

Not that Azalia had any personal experience with this.

No.

Of course not.

She locked the doors, because she was cautious, like always. She yanked her sweater off quickly, and then her camisole, before she kicked off her jeans. As she reached for her shorts, she caught a glimpse of her marred skin in the mirror. She thought that her back had the worst of the scars, but her stomach had one long scar, curving below her belly button. At its peak, it disappeared under her underwear.

Perhaps that was the worst of them all, a sign of what she failed, of who she failed.

A brand.

A label.

She stepped into her pajama bottoms and pulled them up, tying the string in the waistband so that they sat comfortably on her hips. She pulled the t-shirt over her head quickly and was halfway to the door when she realized that the shirt was far too big on her. Azalia backtracked to the mirror and cringed when she saw what was written on it.

The young and the free, in Arabic.

And she knew, without even having to look, that near the edge of the left sleeve, in a heart, was her name in Arabic script.

Better than a tattoo, he said.

Until she all-but stole the shirt from him. Then he just had to get a real tattoo.

Azalia sighed. It was not like there was any other shirt she preferred.

She balled up her sweater and jeans and unlocked the door.

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

**So, next chapter features the team. Finally!**

**Review?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Totally hasn't been, like, two months. Totally. **

**Disclaimed.**

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

At five thirty in the morning, Azalia was not expecting to walk out, dressed for a run, and bump into her mother who was dressed in a similar fashion, only with a jacket. They both startled, and Azalia had a hand reaching for a nonexistent weapon before she calmed enough to realize that it was her mother.

They asked simultaneously, "What are you doing?"

Azalia answered first, crossing her arms and stating, "Going for a run. You?"

Her mother responded, "Same. Would you like to run together?"

Considering she had no idea of where to run, where it was safest (not that she particularly cared, but after…well, she was cautious), where it would be easiest to traverse, the idea was not so repugnant.

"How far do you normally go?"

"Five miles."

Azalia made a face. Her fingers twitched towards her belly, unsure of how far she could push her body. She had only ever made it up to three, after. Slowly, she nodded, and headed for the door when her mother called her back.

"Get a jacket, Azalia."

She flashed a venomous look over her shoulder at her mother, at the woman who had the gall to try to parent her after a decade of absence. Her mother must have gotten the message, must have understood that her agreeing to go running with her was not for bonding purposes, but simply for practicality's sake.

"I'm not sure if you understand this, but it's no warmer here than in England."

"I'm used to the cold. It's good for me,"

Azalia retorted, biting off her words for an added sting. That was true enough. Her recovery doctor suggested cold weather to help keep her present, away from bad thoughts.

"…Fine," her mother sighed, her voice nearing what one could call cold, opening the door for her daughter and grabbing her keys before stepping out into the hallway. Her mother questioned, "What's your pace?"

Before or after?

"Twelve minute mile, conservatively."

"Were you not on the cross country team?"

"I was. I quit."

"Why?"

Azalia asked, changing the subject abruptly, "Are we driving to a specific destination, or do you usually just run from here and back?"

"I usually drive to a park, five minutes from here," her mother replied, leading her out of the lobby and to her car.

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

A mile and a half into her normal route, Ziva could see that Azalia was struggling to keep up, even though they were barely running. It was more of a brisk jog, really. Her daughter's breathing was labored, though her running form was still Mossad-perfect, and she looked to be at her breaking point.

Ziva slowed to a leisurely jog, and Azalia matched her pace, slowing to a walk before coming to a complete stop altogether. Her daughter clutched her sides, doubling over before falling to her knees.

Ziva had not been worried much before that, because Azalia always liked to push herself– when she was five, she climbed the monkey bars at her school, even though she was deathly afraid of both heights and monkeys– but this could not have been normal for her.

She kneeled down next to Azalia and placed a tentative hand on her shoulder, beginning to rub soothing circles when she was not immediately rebuffed, asking her, "Azalia, tateleh, what's wrong?"

Her daughter's arm remained secured around her own waist, her fingers digging into her sides, but she panted in response, "Out of shape."

"Still, it should not be affecting you this much. We have only gone a mile and a half, Azalia."

Ziva slowly helped her daughter to her feet, glad that she was actually accepting her help, and asked somewhat rhetorically, "We should just head back, yes?" Azalia nodded slowly, her hair slipping out of its messy braid, some curls sticking to her forehead, and Ziva reached out to brush them back, retracting her hand when Azalia flinched.

Sighing, she let Azalia slip out from under her arm and jog ahead, her steps slow and steady.

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

When her knees cracked on the cold pavement, Azalia knew that she had pushed too far.

Her body cried out in protest, and she could do nothing but keep her fingers pressed into her sides, wrapped around her waist in a futile attempt to keep herself intact when it felt like falling apart was inevitable.

She was stupid, she thought, as she jogged a little ways ahead of her mother, her feet and head feeling something like concrete. Trying to undertake five miles, when, in all honesty, she had not even finished a three mile route without collapsing halfway through, was perhaps the most idiotic thing she had ever done.

Had the doctors not warned her against something just like this?

_Listen to your body,_ they had said, _don't push too far_.

When her chest constricted, Azalia stopped altogether, intending to avoid a repeat performance, and she waited until her mother walked up to her.

Her mother asked worriedly, "Are you alright? Do you want me to get the car and come pick you up here?"

Azalia almost waved her off, but the burn in her chest was too much to ignore, and she nodded slowly, finding it hard to speak, her tongue lead in her mouth. Her mother guided her over to a bench, and gently but firmly pushed her down, telling her to stay put and scream if anyone bothered her. For a moment, Azalia allowed herself to be mothered.

But only for a moment.

When her mother hovered for a moment more, Azalia snapped, "Can you hurry up?"

The look of concern that had been on her mother's face was replaced by one of cold indifference, and she turned on her heel and began running back the way they came. Azalia leaned back on the bench, wincing when the cold metal met her sensitive shoulder, before relaxing against it.

It could have been a minute, it could have been an hour.

She was not sure.

Too soon, though, she heard steady, heavy footsteps heading towards her.

She cracked open her eyes.

When they focused, she saw a boy, tall and lanky, blond hair falling into his eyes as he jogged in place, watching her quizzically. He had his head at an angle, making him look a bit like puppy, but maybe that was just her. He was about her age, give or take a year or so.

Azalia snapped, "Can I help you?"

The blond boy held up his hands in the universal sign of surrender, and said, "Um, I was just wondering if you needed help."

"I am fine."

"No offense or anything, but you don't particularly look it."

"Will you leave?" Azalia groaned when he answered by sitting down next to her.

"You here alone?" he asked.

"No," she snapped, "my boyfriend's coming back. You won't want to be here when he comes back. Big guy, jealous type."

"Really?" The boy reclined, saying calmly, "Because your sister definitely looks like a big, jealous guy."

Azalia narrowed her eyes. "Sister?"

"That girl that just ran off. The one that you were running with. She's your sister, right?"

Azalia snorted, "Uh, hate to break it to you, but she's my mother."

The boy did a double take, glancing back to where her mother had been and then back at her, and he asked incredulously, "_Seriously_?"

"Seriously."

"Holy shit, she's young. Or she looks young. Does she moisturize religiously or something?"

"Are you the police or something?"

"Yeesh, I'm just curious."

"I am literally about two seconds away from screaming rape."

"You've got an accent."

Azalia rolled her eyes, and obliged him for a moment. "No shit, really? I had not noticed."

"…Spanish?"

She scoffed. "Oh, no, no no no no no."

"Then what, Italian?"

"Are you guessing based on my skin color, as well?"

"…A little."

Azalia rolled her eyes again, biting her tongue to keep from snapping at him. After a moment, she muttered, "Israeli."

"Like, from Israel?"

"No, from New Zealand. Will you leave now?"

The boy watched her for a moment more, and then stood up, stretching quickly before beginning to jog off. He paused, about fifteen feet away and called back to her, saying, "My name's Porter, by the way."

"Not happening, _Porter_."

He flashed her a grin, the sun glinting off of his hair, and jogged away. Azalia watched him go, allowing herself to appreciate the lean muscle that had not been easily seen when he was sitting next to her. The strength in his shoulders, his legs, the quiet power. It reminded her of Shahid, though they could not have been more polar of opposites. Her eyes followed the blond head as it bobbed out of view, and they stayed fixed in that direction until a short car honk broke her trance. Azalia glanced over quickly, and, upon seeing her mother's car, stood up and walked over, ignoring the dull ache that threatened to overwhelm her.

Some things would never change, she supposed.

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

Ziva scrubbed a hand against her cheek tiredly when her phone rang later that morning. From the bathroom, over the din of the shower, Azalia yelled faintly, "I think your phone is ringing!"

Ziva smirked and eyed the phone in question, the smirk widening into a grin when she saw it was Tony, and she called back, "Thank you, Azalia!" She swiped her finger across the screen, answering the call, and she greeted, "Good morning, Tony."

"Hey Zi. So, I know you've got another half a week of vacation, and I hate to do this…"

"There has been a murder, no?"

"Manassas Park. Meet us there?"

Ziva glanced at the bathroom door, and then answered, "Fifteen minutes."

"I'll swing by to get you."

"Tony, you–."

In the distance, she heard Gibbs bark, "_You get David?_"

"_On it Boss!_"

The line went dead, and Ziva groaned. She had planned on telling the team about Azalia, under the right circumstances, at the right time, preferably after she had had a few days to work out exactly what she wanted to say. But, first, she had to get ready.

She rapped on the door to the bathroom, and said, "Azalia, you need to hurry up. I have to get to work, and I still need to shower."

She heard muted grumbling, but the water shut off a moment later.

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

Azalia twisted her hair up, the ropey curls still damp from her shower and dripping down her tank top. She slid a few bobby pins into place, did her makeup, and slipped a tank top over her head, completing her outfit for the day (shorts, tank top, braid. Read: ultimate vegetable clothing), intent on settling into her mother's ridiculously comfortable couch.

She wandered out of her mother's room, wondering when she was going to get her own room, or whether she would be staying in her mother's room the entire time. Or on the couch?

Tired from over-thinking, Azalia threw herself down onto the couch and reached for the remote. There was not much of interest on, and she flipped through channels before settling on watching some American movie on some American channel.

When there was a knock on the door, and her mother was still not out of the shower, Azalia grinned.

Was this the mystery partner her mother had been working with for the past ten or so years?

When another knock sounded, Azalia rolled of the couch and went to the door, leaning up to see who was there. Tallish, brown hair, green eyes. Lightly lined around the eyes and mouth, so…at least in his forties. She decided that he must be Tony.

She schooled her expression, and opened the door.

"Hey, Zi–."

When he ostensibly realized that she was not her mother, he stopped talking abruptly, his face and eyes showing his confusion.

"Uh…who are you?"

Smirking, she said coolly, "Azalia Malev," clipping her vowels in an effort to sound as disinterested as possible.

She could see the gears turning in his head. "And you're Ziva's…sister…?"

"Daughter, actually."

The look on his face was hilarious, if it only lasted a moment. Then he broke out into a grin, though she could tell he felt a little betrayed. Her mother, as she had expected, had told no one of her existence.

"Anthony DiNozzo, pleased to meet you."

Azalia dipped her head at him in response, and they shook hands before she decided that she had messed with her mother's current existence enough and flopped back down onto the couch. As if knowing that she was needed, the bathroom door opened and Ziva walked out, damp hair twisted into a bun, much like her daughter's, and dressed for work.

She looked up in surprise when she noticed Tony's presence.

"Oh," Azalia said calmly, "Your partner is here. I take it that you are going to work now?"

Her mother sent her a warning glare, sans the warning, because, well, Azalia felt that they were past the point of warning.

"Good morning, Tony," Ziva said smoothly, before telling Azalia quietly, in Hebrew, "I will be back late. There is money on my dresser, and take out menus in the drawer by the refrigerator. Try not to set anything on fire."

That last bit stung a little. But Azalia smiled and answered sardonically, "I will try. You are not too attached to this couch, yes?"

"Ha ha. My little comedienne."

Ziva switched back to English and asked Tony, "Ready?"

He nodded, somewhat stunned from the encounter, Azalia presumed, and they headed for the door.

Goodbyes were exchanged, some decidedly less enthusiastic than others, and then the door swung closed, and it was quiet.

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

"Say something, Tony." The last ten minutes had been far too quiet.

"You have a daughter," he stated, his voice flinty.

"Yes."

"She's, what, sixteen?"

"Almost. A couple months from it."

"Sixteen. You've been here ten years."

"Yes."

"We've been partners for almost a decade, Zi, and you've never mentioned her. Not once."

Ziva grew silent for a moment, figuring out how to word what she wanted to say correctly. Finally, she responded, "If I spoke of her, I would remember how much I have failed her."

"A simple, 'By the way, Tony, I've got a kid,' would have sufficed."

"I am sorry, Tony. There were many moments when I wanted to tell you, but I–."

"We're here."

Ziva reached out a hand and placed it gently on Tony's arm, stilling him for a moment and making him look at her.

"Do not mention this to anyone, please? I will tell everyone, soon; I just need to figure out how to."

He cracked a smile.

"I know better than to share your secrets, Zi."

* * *

**XxXxXxX**

* * *

**Review?**


	5. Chapter 5

**it hasn't been that long. it hasn't, right? like, it hasn't been a year, so... heh heh, heh...no one kill me. please.**

**disclaimed.**

* * *

**...**

* * *

"Thanks," Azalia said, accepting the takeout boxes from the delivery boy and shutting the door behind her. She had put off eating until almost nine at night, pushing her hunger to the back of her mind in favor of watching Ryan Gosling take off his shirt multiple times, but finally it grew too much to bear, and she ordered from the only place open that interested her, a Chinese restaurant that, from what she could smell, had amazing food.

She was about to break open the oyster chicken, when her cell phone buzzed next to her. She swiped her thumb across the screen, and answered without looking, "Hello?"

"Oh," her mother said, "good, you're still awake."

"It is only nine thirty."

Her mother sighed audibly, and Azalia could just picture her shoulders slumping slightly in exasperation, but then she said, "Have you eaten yet?"

Azalia eyed the takeout box in her hand. "I just got my takeout."

"Good. I will not be back until late, so lock everything but the chain before you go to bed."

"Anything else I should know?"

"The deadbolt sticks a bit; just push on the door a little while flipping it."

"Got it. I suppose I will see you in the morning?"

"Maybe before then if we do not catch any leads. Do not stay up to late, okay?"

"Saba never had any problem with me staying up as long as I liked."

"Well, he was never very concerned with other people's wellbeing. I want you to be in bed before midnight, please?"

"…Sure. …My food is getting cold."

Another sigh.

"Laila tov, Azalia."

Had she been feeling sentimental, she might have responded in kind. Instead, Azalia ended the call without another word and set her attention back to her chicken.

* * *

**...**

* * *

Ziva bit her lip when the line went dead.

She ought to have known that that was how the conversation would end, but after what she had encountered at the crime scene, all she really wanted was to hear her daughter's voice, to know that she was safe.

In the early days at NCIS, when there was a particularly brutal case that involved a child, she would drag her sorry self home and call Benjamin, who would always understand and wake their daughter, telling her that Imale was feeling a little lonely out in America and Azalia would always grab the phone, sleepy but excited to talk to her mother.

After Benjamin died, and Azalia moved in with her grandfather, who was less willing to wake the girl in the middle of the night just to talk to her shaken mother, those calls tapered off.

But, sometimes, Eli would hear something in her voice, would hear the same desperation that was in her voice after Tali died and all she wanted to know was where Ari was, and he would begrudgingly shuffle into his granddaughter's room and wake her.

Azalia, at that point, was beginning to sour towards her, she thought, and would take the phone and say hello and listen for a few moments and respond grumpily before dropping off again. Even though she could hear the anger in her daughter's voice, it was still nice to talk to her, to get a sense of the little girl she had once been as her voice tired and she drifted into sleep, mumbling goodnight.

It was nice to still be part of her life.

Now…

Now she still had a daughter, she reminded herself, glancing up at the plasma, where the murdered girl's picture was displayed, a constant reminder of what they needed to do.

Chelsea King, seventeen, blonde, junior at Edmund Burke, a private school just west of Rock Creek Park, where the body was found by two sailors and their girlfriends on a hike. The girl's father was stationed on a sub near the horn of Africa. As far as the team could figure at this point, Chelsea's mother left when the girl was young, and Chelsea had been staying with a friend of the family who had yet to be found.

Chelsea had been beaten, raped, and her throat had been slit, a Glasgow smile carved into her cheeks, and her heart removed post-mortem. All-in-all a terrifying picture for anyone, let alone a mother, to see.

Ziva's stomach twisted for the hundredth time that hour. Unable to continue working with the picture of the murdered girl up on the plasma, Ziva got up and headed to the elevator, deciding that checking in on Abby would be a better use of her time at the moment. She picked up a Caf-Pow on her way, knowing all too well what wrath befell those that dared enter Abby Sciuto's lab Caf-Pow-less, and intent on avoiding it.

The moment she stepped over the threshold, Abby snapped the music off and whirled around, her face determined as she stomped over and dragged Ziva completely into the lab.

"Okay," Abby said, taking the drink from her, "spill."

"Spill what, Abby?"

"You and Tony have been acting squirrely today. I want answers, missy."

"You have not spoken to Tony?"

"I did, and he was _squirrely_, and told me to ask you. So, talk."

Ziva opened her mouth to buy herself some time, to talk her way out of this conversation, if only for a little while. But Abby leveled a signature glare at her, and Ziva decided that it would be as difficult later as it would be now.

So, instead of figuring a way out of it, she asked, "Can we talk in your office?"

Abby nodded suspiciously, heading there quickly and dropping down into her chair and waiting patiently.

"Tony and I have been acting like squirrels today because I have something that I have not told anyone about, and Tony…stumbled upon it, when he picked me up today. Abby, I…I have a child. A daughter."

Abby's beloved Caf-Pow dropped to the floor, and her mouth popped open in shock. There was a moment of silence, as what Ziva said processed. And then Abby was on her feet and she hugged Ziva fiercely and when she released her, she said angrily, "Ziva, I can't believe you never told me!"

Ziva started to answer, when Abby began rapid firing questions at her. "What's her name? Does she look like you? How old is she? Where's she been all this time? How'd you hide her from us? What's she like? Wh–."

Ziva held up a hand to stop her friend and laughed, and said, grinning, "One question at a time Abby! Okay, her name is Azalia, she is sixteen–."

"_Sixteen_?!"

"Almost. Her birthday is next month."

Abby looked like she wanted to say something, but didn't, and Ziva continued. "She does look like me, I suppose. Her father always complained about it. Er, she was in Israel, and then last year, she was in England. She is…she is quite complicated. Very sweet, and very smart. Whip smart, actually, and a sharp tongue. And…I don't think I ever tried to _hide _her from you all. I just did not bring her up, and no one else spoke of her."

"Ziva, you've been asked if you had kids, and you always answered no."

"…I tried to separate my identity in Israel from my identity here, in America. I thought that…that it would make it easier, being away from her, for so long, if I was not forced to talk about her. I…it was flawed logic, even then, and I can see now that I made a mistake in never mentioning her."

Abby seemed to accept this explanation, though Ziva was quite sure that it would be brought up again later, but for now, she seemed satisfied. And then she stated, "You were seventeen, Ziva."

"I was."

"And you had a baby."

"I did."

"I'm sorry, I'm just kind of…I can't…this just isn't processing right in my head. And how did Tony find out?"

"He showed up at my apartment before I was ready, and Azalia answered the door. And told him that I am her mother. It is rather hard to convince someone otherwise, once it has been said."

"Would you have kept her a secret if he hadn't surprised you?"

"…I am not sure. I do not think so. I would like to believe that at some point soon, I would come to terms with my parenting, or lack thereof, and I would be able to share. But…but I am also ashamed that I left her. That I abandoned my child in the country of her birth, and never returned. I could not live with the guilt, Abby. And I did not want any of you to judge me for it."

And then what happened was what Azalia would have dubbed an Attack Hug. Abby stated firmly, "We'd never judge you, Ziva! You're family!"

Ziva smiled slowly, and returned the hug after a moment, and she thanked the scientist, who then insisted that Azalia be introduced to the team soon, and, after learning that the mass spec had yet to match the fibers found on Chelsea's jacket, she returned to the bullpen.

* * *

**...**

* * *

It was past midnight when the team disbanded, Gibbs barking at everyone to go home and get some sleep. Ziva was the last to pack up, hesitating by the plasma before turning it off. Tony waited by the elevators for her, his eyes tired and his mouth pressed into a grim line.

She walked to meet him, thanking him quietly for holding the elevator open for her and, when she got in, taking her bag and slinging it over his shoulder in an unnecessary, but much appreciated, show of chivalry.

They rode down in silence, an unspoken agreement that he would drive her home, after they had gotten something to eat, a ritual that had developed during the last particularly brutal case they had had, when neither wanted to be alone until they absolutely had to. He had spent more than a few nights at her apartment, being stubborn and taking the couch (despite his back) because they both knew each other well enough to know that they would each have nightmares and that neither needed to be alone through the night.

Tony, as they walked to his car, asked, "How're you holding up?"

Ziva glanced up at him, his eyes hidden by the shadows of the night, and responded, "It is not easy. Not when the girl is so close to Azalia's age. It is never easy, with children, though. I am doing as well as I could hope for."

They walked in silence for a few moments, the only sound in the parking garage their footsteps.

Finally, Ziva nudged him and asked, "And you? How are you 'handling'?"

He sighed. Oh, he sounded so _old_ then, as if he had aged a millennium in one day, and Ziva's heart ached for him. She had a child to go home to, as angry and distant as that child may be, and Tony had no one, save for a fish named after a dead woman. After a moment, Tony answered wearily, "She was a kid, Ziva. A baby. Barely lived. It's strange to think that at seventeen, I was doing everything in my power to screw my life up, to be everything my father didn't want."

"I was having a baby. It is…chilling to think about how easily things would have changed, if you or I had not made it to adulthood, yes?"

Tony reached out blindly and grasped his partner's hand, his large, warm hand dwarfing hers. Ziva squeezed it reassuringly. When they got to his car, they did not speak, but as he pulled out of the parking space, they laced their fingers together and did not let go until they arrived at the all-night diner.

* * *

**...**

* * *

Dinner– or, more aptly, breakfast was a quiet, nonplussed affair. They got the same things that they always have– pancakes for her and meatloaf for him– and after they paid their check, Tony drove her back to her apartment.

He offered to walk her up, but she wasn't sure as to the level of consciousness that Azalia would be at and she did not want to startle the girl. When she opened the door, she heard nothing, but as she rounded the corner of the hallway, she saw Azalia's dark head resting on the arm of the couch, her body curled around a pillow and her chin tucked into her chest.

She looked very young in sleep, like she did as a child, as a baby.

Ziva walked over and knelt down in front of her slumbering daughter, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder and saying quietly, "Azalia, wake up. You will get a crick in your neck this way."

She chose to speak in Hebrew, because, though while awake it was obvious that Azalia preferred English, she hoped that the sound of her native tongue would help her daughter wake up gradually.

It worked.

Azalia's eyes fluttered open slowly, and she was obviously disoriented when she mumbled, "Imale?"

A few strands of Azalia's hair had escaped the French braid she had plaited them into, and Ziva brushed them back off of her forehead, saying softly, "Come on, tateleh, off to bed."

Azalia's cloudy eyes cleared a bit, and she murmured, "It is your bed, I will sleep here," before she rolled over and sighed, her body relaxing. Ziva's conscience and mother's heart wouldn't let her leave it at that; she roused her daughter once more, shaking her shoulder gently and murmuring for her to go to the bedroom, and that she would take the couch.

Azalia groggily complied, allowing her mother to help her stand and then shuffled independently towards the bedroom. Ziva waited until she heard a thump that must have been Azalia collapsing onto the bed before she started to make up the couch, going to the linen closet next to the bathroom for sheets and a blanket.

She stole a pillow from her bed after, tucking the sheets around Azalia as she did so, and after she slid the door almost closed, she finished making up the couch and collapsed onto it.

It did not take long for sleep to overtake her.

* * *

**...**

* * *

**i made a tumblr. **fat beotch in a skinny world **(no spaces), so feel free to leave me a message! i like making friends!**

**review?**


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